


sweet nothings are screamed, not spoken

by orphan_account



Series: the chronicles of sub geralt [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Jaskier | Dandelion Talks A Lot, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Slash, Semi-Public Sex, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 13:27:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22496824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Geralt hates when Jaskier rambles.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: the chronicles of sub geralt [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1618516
Comments: 3
Kudos: 405





	sweet nothings are screamed, not spoken

Geralt hates when Jaskier rambles.

It’s annoying to him, being a man of few words. He prattles on about anything and everything but doesn’t _actually_ say anything. Half of the time, Geralt’s sure he’s not talking with a purpose in mind—either he just likes the sound of his own voice, or his goal really is just to talk the witcher’s ear off.

Another thing that Geralt hates are royal parties. There are too many politics and under-the-table dealings that happen in them, too many headache-inducing scents and colourful tunics, not to mention the annoying peering and prattling of various nobles that think, because they were of high standing, Geralt was obligated to pay them any attention.

So, one might imagine his annoyance when those two combine, which is _far_ too often for the witcher, a fact that he’s made known enough times that Jaskier will preface every request that Geralt be his bodyguard for the night with a “now, you can say no,” which, frankly, he always says ‘no’ to. Had it not been for Jaskier’s maddening ability to convince him of absolutely anything, he would’ve been long gone before the bard could even say a word.

Which brings him to his current situation, nursing what feels like his sixth mug of ale, standing to the side of the dining hall away from the attention as Jaskier performs one of his songs. If Jaskier sees him roll his eyes when he winks at him, the bard is unbothered as he flits from space to space gracefully, his voice a flexible thing as he changes from note to note. Geralt’s seen enough of him performing to know how he manages to enrapture the crowd, with his sultry smirks and posturing to support the mood of his ballads. He can’t deny that Jaskier’s a master at what he does, recognised often when they visit taverns from all across the Continent, but even he isn’t cold and delusional enough to say that Jaskier didn’t deserve the fame.

They’ve been through a lot together, from when they first met in Dol Blathanna years back till now. Geralt has long since given up on denying that they were friends, even if it pains him to admit out loud, and that he cares for Jaskier in more ways than just keeping his hide from danger. There have been a few close calls, where Jaskier gets too close to the fighting and gets hurt, or where he gets mad and snaps too hard at him, but despite it all, they still travel together and trust each other more than anyone else.

“Thank you, thank you!” Jaskier says, signifying the end of his performances, bowing for the cheering crowd of nobles. In the corner of his eye, Geralt sees even the servants smiling and clapping, and his expression softens a little when he looks back at Jaskier. “That will be all from me tonight— do not anguish, for I will return another time!” He promises, carrying his lute with him as he moves towards the exit. Geralt puts his mug down and walks to where Jaskier leaves through, ready for the night to be over.

“Ah, Geralt! I’m pleased to see you’ve joined me,” Jaskier says, grinning. The vestibule is bereft of people, everyone still enjoying the night inside the dining hall, and his voice bounces against the walls. “That was such a lively crowd! One would think that the Redanian nobility has seen many performances before, but to have them cheering and singing along to my songs?” He sighs dramatically, a hand on his chest and the other on his lute as he beams. “Truly, it’s an honour.”

“Why you relish in their approval, I will never understand.” Geralt replies, but Jaskier doesn’t seem to be listening to him as he crosses the vestibule.

“Perhaps someday I could perform for them again, once we’ve acquired more material, of course; it would be drab to perform songs I’ve performed time and time again,” He prattles on, and Geralt already feels the itch of annoyance and the hold of the ale in the pit of his stomach. “Oh, Geralt, we must return to this enjoyable crowd one day—”

“No.”

“—How would they ever enjoy another bard as they have me? I could never be so cold to deny them of such a delectable source of entertainment—”

“Please stop talking.” The request falls on deaf ears.

“—ah, yes, but of course! I can return in the winter, perhaps the songs of hearth and the loving embrace of a soft bosom will bring warmth to their cold—”

Geralt’s hands move quicker than his mind when he catches Jaskier by the shoulders and pins him to the wall. There’s a soft noise of surprise from Jaskier as he catches those _incessantly_ talkative lips in his, tasting the wine and berries that linger on the bard’s tongue from before he performed. The kiss lasts for what feels like forever, and the ferocity and intensity of their kiss were too akin to passion to be blamed on the ale.

It’s only until Jaskier’s pushing him off that Geralt breaks away, but the expected yell of disgust or anger doesn’t come. Instead, their positions flip and now _Geralt_ was the one against the wall, only inches taller than Jaskier as the bard angles up to kiss him again, hands wandering across his tunic and untucking it. He feels the pads of Jaskier’s fingers against his belly, palms pressing against the line of his pelvis, and instantly knows the intention. _Fuck._

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do this, witcher,” Jaskier mutters lowly when they separate for a bit of air, breathing heavily as he moves to kiss and suck marks on Geralt’s neck, pale as snow like the rest of him, and it dawns on him that he’s not in control. “Always so lovely to look at. How could I not have?” He asks to no one particular before he returns to attacking Geralt’s neck.

He feels himself hardening, and when Jaskier slots a thigh against his crotch, he tries to hide the groan that punches out of him. Jaskier laughs at this, a coarseness in his throat that makes Geralt wonder if it was from the singing or what they were doing. “I would ask you to be _louder_ , but seeing as we’re in the court of a king, I’ll have to ask you stay quiet,” He says, and Geralt should _not_ be getting harder at the tone of voice he uses, low and so unlike the light chipper of his actual voice. “Unless, of course, that’s what you want?”

Geralt must be doing a very poor job of concealing his reactions when a grin splits on Jaskier’s face, burning blue eyes boring into his. “Yes, perhaps you’d like that. Do you like the attention, Geralt?” And he very much does _not_ but the words don’t leave his mouth, “Do you want the good king of Redania to hear the noises you’ll make when I slide my cock in your ass?”

Geralt can’t believe that he’s _actually_ falling for Jaskier’s words like an entranced maiden in one of his brothel ballads, but he ruts against his thigh all the same. The bard hums, petting Geralt’s hair, “Or maybe you wanted to get off on my thigh alone like a desperate whore?” He asks, and the words send sparks down Geralt’s spine. “What’ll it be, my wolf?”

Geralt opens his mouth, but he can’t find the words. Jaskier looks at him expectantly, and there’s a flash in his eyes when no answer comes. Jaskier slides his hands up the Geralt’s chest, brushing against the hard nubs of his nipples and rolling them between his fingers, eliciting a sharp breath and barely hidden moan from the witcher. “Tell me, what do you want?” Jaskier asks, breath hot against Geralt’s marked neck.

“Just, _you,_ ” Geralt replies, gritting his teeth when Jaskier doesn’t relent on his touching. The bard chuckles, giving him a funny look that Geralt doesn’t have the time nor the mind to decipher its meaning.

“You have me, Geralt, but I need to know what you want,” Jaskier explains, voice and expression too soft for their situation. Then the smirk returns to his lips, but there’s an uncertainty in his eyes. “Unless you’d like to stop here?”

“Gods, no,” Geralt grinds out, and some of the tension in Jaskier’s stance lessens. “ _Fuck._ I want you to—” He begins, but goes rigid when he hears footsteps. Jaskier stills, listening intently with Geralt as feminine giggles and hushed words resound by the entrance of the dining hall before they fade along with the footsteps.

Jaskier grins at him wolfishly, and his gaze is so heated it tickles the back of his neck. “You were saying?”

“Fuck me, Jaskier,” Geralt says honestly now, and he twists up inside with how quickly he says it, but when he sees black overtake the glass blue of Jaskier’s irises and feels the quickening of his breath, he knows the words land right.

Jaskier lowers his thigh enough so Geralt can remove them, which he does with unusually shaky hands until Jaskier’s turning him around and pressing him against the stone wall of the castle. His jacket and tunic come off, and he can feel the reprimanding gaze from Jaskier when he tosses them to the floor. A part of him wishes he could see Jaskier, see his expressions and what he does, but this is the most they can do against a wall in the castle of a _king._ He hears the removal of a cork plug, and his mind swims at the knowledge that Jaskier had been planning to fuck or get fucked at some point in the night.

Then there’s a warm, oiled finger pressing into his hole, and his back arches at the sensation as the wind is punched out of him. It’s not often he’s tended to there, because he goes out and fucks whores rarely enough, let _alone_ gets fucked, so he enjoys it as much as he can. There’s a part in him that’s afraid this will ruin what they had, but the rest of him just wants Jaskier’s cock in him.

A second finger joins the first, and the moan that comes out of his mouth is _dirty._ Jaskier shushes him gently, pressing kisses against his broad back, but Geralt can feel the smile on his lips. A third finger is pushed into him, and he outright _w_ _hines_ at the breach but pushes back against it all the same. His back is arched forward, ass pushing towards Jaskier for _more, more, more,_ and he hears a whispered curse escape the bard. There are more kisses on his back, more softly whispered praises that has Geralt aching in both his ass and in his heart.

“ _Jaskier,_ please, just fuck me already,” He pants out, feeling boneless at the bard’s ministrations. He feels more than hears Jaskier laugh, but instead of listening, he seems to finger him harder, curling in different areas of his hole until he gets the spot that has Geralt cursing and his thighs shaking. “Fuck!” He cries out, and the kisses on his back turn into bites.

“Be quiet, darling,” Jaskier warns, and Geralt’s sure he could probably get off on this voice alone, “As much as I’d want an audience, I wouldn’t want our first time to be in front of the king of Redania, hm?”

Geralt only nods feverishly, red all over and covered in marks. Jaskier seems to take the time to admire his handiwork before he’s pulling his fingers out and working on the laces of his trousers. It doesn’t take long for him to untuck himself and cover his cock in oil, and when he finally presses his cockhead into Geralt’s entrance, it’s like a breath of fresh air for the both of them.

In a slow but thorough motion, Jaskier buries himself into Geralt, trying to keep his own cries of pleasure quiet. Geralt, on the other hand, is _much_ louder during sex than he is outside of it, mewling and panting and whining against Jaskier that he thinks anyone within looking distance could probably hear him. The possibility that they could get caught, while embarrassing, is immeasurably hot in Geralt’s blissed-out mind, so he holds no fear as he meets Jaskier halfway.

“Jaskier, if you don’t move I swear to the gods I will—”

He doesn’t finish the threat because Jaskier is sliding back and slamming in by the last syllable. The noise he makes is far too small for a man of his size and stature, but Jaskier ignores this and sets a pace, angling himself in a way that has his cockhead rubbing against Geralt’s prostate every time. Geralt’s biting into his arm and knows it’ll surely leave a deep mark, but he’s too close to cumming to care.

He feels the curl in the pit of his stomach like a vice on his cock, and feels the tightening of his balls as he says Jaskier’s name like a prayer, before he’s cumming in hot spurts, spilling over the wall. He watches it drip down the stone and has to steel himself as Jaskier chases his own orgasm, which had to be close, considering the bruising grip on his hips and the ferocity of his curses. Then Jaskier pulls out, and it only takes him a few strokes for him to spill all over Geralt’s back. It’s warm, hot, even, and he can feel it slowly trickle down his back, but he’s too out of his mind to care.

“Holy shit,” Jaskier whispers, panting and breathless against Geralt. The witcher makes a sound of agreement, officially fucked out of speaking, and shakily straightens his back, thighs shaking from the aftermath of his orgasm. He feels the same reprimanding stare on his back when he picks up his jacket and hands it to Jaskier expectantly. Before long, the jacket is taken and wiped on the mess in his back, but Jaskier focuses more on tracing the bruises and bites blooming on his back.

Geralt turns around to look at Jaskier, whose bottom lip is kiss swollen and _red._ The black of his pupils haven’t gotten smaller, and he stares at Geralt with a look in his eye he hasn’t seen from anyone before. 

“That was…” Geralt starts only to be interrupted by Jaskier pressing his lips against his. He leans into the kiss, hands coming to rest against the bard’s neck and cup his face, and he deepens the kiss as much as he could until they have to break away for air.

“Mind-blowing? Astounding? _World-shattering?_ ” Jaskier teasingly supplies, and when Geralt’s eyes rake over him for what feels like the tenth time tonight, he looks wrecked in a way he wants to burn into his mind. His hair is messy, sweat running down his neck to the collar of his doublet, and Geralt almost whimpers when it makes his spent cock twitch.

“I liked it better when you were—”

The sounds of footsteps and chatter slowly getting closer to the main doors of the dining hall has them both turning to look in surprise, and it’s only by Geralt’s witcher reflexes that they make their quick escape. When they both run until the castle doors are far enough behind them, Geralt’s not sure if Jaskier’s laughing with him or at him.

They smile at each other, and if anyone wonders why there’s a jacket on the floor and cum on the stone wall under a large, expensive painting of a hideous crab in the castle of a king, that’s none of their business.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm theratofrivia on tumblr!


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